OLD  LONDON  TOWN 

WATTERSON 


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OLD  LONDON  TOWN 


OLD  LONDON  TOWN 

AND  OTHER  TRAVEL 
SKETCHES 


By 
Henry  Watterson 


The  Torch  Press,  Publishers 

Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa 

Nineteen  Ten 


W3S 

The  Torch  Series 
Edited  by  Joseph  Fort  Newton 


209425 


FOREWORD 

THESE  delightful  sketches  of  trav- 
el, hardly  more  than  films,  were 
written  while  the  author  was  so- 
journing abroad  in  1906-7.  They  show 
us  a  great  journalist  at  play,  revisiting 
familiar  places,  musing,  philosophizing, 
and  soliloquizing  upon  the  course  of  hu- 
man affairs.  History  haunts  him,  as  it 
does  all  who  journey  amid  its  lights  and 
shadows,  and  his  observations  and  re- 
flections have  the  mellow  note  of  one 
who  has  lived  much  and  meditated  deep- 
ly— one  who  feels  the  tears,  not  less  than 
the  comedy,  in  mortal  things.  Pic- 
turesque, discursive  and  entertaining, 
they  are  all  the  more  charming  for  a 
touch  of  personal  reminiscence. 

J.  F.  N. 


OLD  LONDON  TOWN 

EsTDON,  less  than  any  of  the  great 
Capitals  of  the  world — even  less 
than  Berlin — has  changed  its  as- 
pects in  the  last  four  decades  of  altera- 
tion and  development.  During  the  Sec- 
ond Empire,  and  under  the  wizard  hand 
of  Baron  Hauseman,  a  new  Paris  sprang 
into  existence.  We  know  what  has  hap- 
pened in  New  York  and  Chicago.  But 
London,  except  the  Thames  Embank- 
ments and  the  opening  of  a  street  here 
and  there  betwixt  the  City  and  the  West 
End — the  mid-London  of  Soho  and  the 
Strand — is  very  much  the  London  I  be- 
came acquainted  with  nearly  forty  years 
ago.  To  be  sure  many  of  the  ancient 
landmarks,  such  as  Temple  Bar,  the 
Cock  and  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  have  gone 
to  the  ash  heap  of  the  forgotten,  whilst 
some  imposing  hostelries  have  risen  in 


the  region  about  Trafalgar  Square ;  but, 
in  the  main,  the  biggest  village  of  Christ- 
endom has  lost  none  of  its  familiar  ear- 
marks, so  that  the  exile  set  down  any- 
where from  Charing  Cross  and  Picadilly 
Circus  to  the  bustling  region  of  the  Old 
Lady  of  Threadneedle  Street,  blindfold, 
would,  the  instant  the  bandage  were  re- 
moved from  his  eyes,  exclaim,  "It  is 
London!" 

Yes,  it  is  London;  the  same  old  Lon- 
don; the  same  old  cries  in  the  street; 
the  same  old  whitey-brown  atmosphere; 
even  the  same  old  Italian  organ  grinders, 
the  tunes  merely  a  trifle  varied.  Nor  yet 
without  its  charm,  albeit  to  me  of  a 
rather  ghostly,  reminiscential  sort.  I 
came  here  in  1866,  with  a  young  wife 
and  roll  of  ambitious  manscript,  found 
work  to  do  and  a  publisher,  lived  for  a 
time  in  the  clouds  of  two  worlds,  that  of 
Bohemia,  of  which  the  Savage  Club  was 
headquarters,  and  that  of  the  New  Apo 
calypse  of  Science  which  eddied  about 
the  School  of  Mines  in  Jermyn  Street 
and  the  ' i  Fortnightly  Review, ' '  then  pre- 
sided over  by  George  Henry  Lewes,  my 
10 


nearest  friend  and  sponsor  the  late  Pro- 
fessor Huxley.  I  alternated  my  days 
and  nights  between  a  somewhat  familiar 
intimacy  with  Spencer  and  Tyndall  and 
a  wholly  familiar  intimacy  with  Tom 
Robertson  and  Andrew  Halliday.  Arte- 
mus  Ward  was  in  London  and  it  was 
to  him  that  I  owed  these  latter  associa- 
tions. Sir  Henry  Irving  had  not  made 
his  mark.  Sir  Charles  Wyndham  was 
still  in  America.  There  were  Keenes 
and  Kembles  yet  upon  the  stage.  Charles 
Matthews  ruled  the  roost  of  Comedy. 
George  Eliot  was  in  the  glory  of  her 
powers  and  her  popularity.  Thackeray 
was  gone,  but  Charles  Dickens  lived  and 
wrote.  Bulwer-Lytton  lived  and  wrote. 
Wilkie  Collins  and  Charles  Reade  vied 
with  one  another  for  current  favor.  Mod- 
ern Frenchification  had  invaded  neither 
the  Restaurants  nor  the  Music  Halls. 
Evans's  Coffee  House  (Pendennis  core  of 
Harmony)  prevailed  after  midnight  in 
Covent  Garden  Market.  In  short,  the 
solidarities  of  old  England,  along  with 
its  roast,  succulent,  abundant  and  intact. 
In  the  late  autumn  of  1864,  Albert 


Roberts  and  I  found  ourselves  in  Mont- 
gomery, Alabama.  Some  friction  having 
arisen  between  Gen.  Johnston,  to  whom  I 
was  warmly  attached,  and  Gen.  Hood, 
with  whom,  after  Gen.  Johnston  had  been 
relieved  of  the  command  of  the  Army,  I 
had  been  serving,  I  wrote  to  my  old 
friend  Major  Banks,  who  owned  the 
Montgomery  Mail,  asking  for  work  and 
winter  quarters.  He  replied  at  once, 
bidding  me  come  along  and  take  posses- 
sion. Of  course  Roberts  went  with  me. 
The  next  morning  after  our  arrival  an 
advertisement  offering  "two  single  gen- 
tlemen board  and  lodging  in  a  private 
family"  arrested  my  attention. 

The  strange,  impressive  part  of  this 
advertisement  was  an  addendum  which 
stated  that  "references  would  be  given 
and  required. "  Why,  at  this  stage  of 
the  war,  demoralization  on  every  hand, 
any  human  being  should  put  himself  or 
herself,  to  the  trouble  to  consider  the 
character  or  standing  of  any  other  hu- 
man being,  was  what  stumped  me;  so 
round  I  went  and  rang  the  door-bell  of 
a  pretty  house  in  a  garden  enveloped  by 

12 


a  vine- clad  veranda.  A  military  gentle- 
man of  distinguished  appearance  was 
just  coming  out,  and,  made  acquainted 
with  the  purpose  of  my  visit,  he  said, 
"Oh,  that  is  an  affair  of  my  wife/7 
returned  with  me  and  presented  me  to 
a  most  handsome  and  gracious  lady,  in- 
dubitably English,  as,  indeed,  he  was 
himself.  That  afternoon  Roberts  and  I 
moved  in. 

It  proved  to  be  the  family  of  Dr. 
Scott,  the  Post  Surgeon  —  beside  the 
father  and  mother,  two  daughters,  fif- 
teen and  seventeen,  respectively,  and  two 
lads,  one  of  whom  is  now  a  Captain  in 
the  United  States  Navy,  the  other  the 
President  of  a  railway.  Ultimately,  Al- 
bert Eoberts  married  the  younger  of  the 
two  girls,  his  brother  the  elder.  It  does 
look  as  though  there  were  such  a  thing 
as  destiny,  after  all,  does  it  not?  I  am 
telling,  however,  only  so  much  of  this 
story  as  affected  my  subsequent  foreign 
journey  and  first  experience  of  London. 

Dr.  Scott  was  a  son  of  that  Captain 
Scott  who  commanded  Byron's  flagship 
in  Grecian  waters.  He  was  actually  pres- 

13 


ent  in  the  room  when  Byron  died,  at 
that  time  a  lad  of  fifteen,  or  thereabouts. 
He  had  come  to  America  as  surgeon  to 
a  German  colony  just  before  the  War  of 
Secession.  Mrs.  Scott  was  a  sister  of 
Prof.  Huxley.  Armed  with  letters  from 
her  I  made  my  appearance  at  the  School 
of  Mines,  never  having  heard  of  Prof. 
Huxley,  but  not  doubting  that,  being  a 
brother  of  Mrs.  Scott,  he  was  a  person 
worth  the  knowing. 

A  most  handsome  and  agreeable  gen- 
tleman met  me  with  exceeding  friendli- 
ness ;  indeed  letters  had  preceded  the  one 
I  carried  and  he  was  expecting  me.  We 
were  at  once  invited  to  dinner,  of  course. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  dinner.  There 
were  three  male  members  of  the  party 
beside  myself  and  our  host.  One  was  a 
Mr.  Mill.  Another  was  a  Mr.  Tyndall. 
The  third  was  a  Mr.  Spencer.  They 
seemed  respectable,  middle-class  Eng- 
lishmen, and  having  once  reviewed  a 
book  on  education  by  a  certain  Mr.  Her- 
bert Spencer,  I  judged  that  this  might 
be  he,  and,  in  case  it  were,  he  must  be, 
if  not  a  literary  man,  at  least  a  peda- 

14 


gogue.  The  standing  of  the  other  two, 
like  that  of  Huxley  himself,  was  un- 
known to  me;  so  that,  after  the  ladies 
were  gone,  and  the  talk  became  mascu- 
line and  puissant,  I  let  myself  in  with 
the  intrepidity  of  ignorance  and  youth, 
and,  it  being,  as  I  thought,  a  contest  for 
the  royalties  of  mind,  I  pragmatized 
with  Mr.  Mill  and  "jawed  back"  to 
Mr.  Spencer  and  Mr.  Tyndall,  quite  un- 
conscious, if  not  of  the  depths  I  was 
treading,  yet  of  the  dignity  of  the  com- 
pany I  was  keeping;  though  I  got  the 
impression  that  except  for  an  air  of  the 
school-room  in  Mr.  Mill  and  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, they  were  persons  of  more  than 
average  intelligence.  Several  dinners 
followed  and  I  soon  found  my  bearings ; 
but  it  was  too  late  to  mend  my  manners, 
and,  to  the  end,  I  was  known  in  this  de- 
lightful circle  as  "Tenfant  prodige!" 

But  we  must  not  let  our  horns  get 
too  far  ahead  of  our  hounds.  To  me 
London  was  Mecca.  The  look  of  it,  the 
very  smell  of  it,  was  inspiration.  Inci- 
dentally— I  don't  mind  saying — there 
were  some  cakes  and  ale.  The  nights 
15 


were  jolly  enough  down  in  the  Adelphi, 
where  the  barbarians  of  the  Savage 
Club  held  high  revel,  and  George  Au- 
gustus Sala  was  Primate,  and  Edmund 
Yates  and  Tom  Robertson  were  High 
Priests.  Temple  Bar  blocked  the  pas- 
sage from  Belgravia  to  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land, and  there  was  no  Holborn  Via- 
duct nor  Victorian  Embankment. 

Aye,  long  ago!  How  far  away  it 
seems,  and  how  queer?  To  me  it  was 
the  London  of  story-books ;  of  Whitting- 
ton  and  his  cat  and  Goody  Two-Shoes 
and  the  Canterbury  Shades;  of  Otway 
and  Marlowe  and  Chatterton;  of  Nell 
Gwynne  and  Dick  Steele  and  poor  Gold- 
smith ;  of  all  that  was  bizarre  and  fanci- 
ful in  history,  that  was  strange  and  ro- 
mantic in  legend;  and  not  the  London 
of  the  Tower,  the  Museum  and  West- 
minster Abbey ;  not  the  London  of  Cre- 
morne  Gardens,  newly  opened,  nor  the 
Argyle  Rooms,  which  should  have  been 
burned  to  the  ground  before  they  were 
opened  at  all. 

Since  then  I  have  been  in  and  out  of 
London  many  times.  I  have  been  amused 

76 


here  and  bored  here;  but  give  me  back 
my  old  fool's  paradise  and  I  shall  care 
for  naught  else. 

One  may  doubt  which  holds  him  clos- 
est, the  London  of  History  or  the  London 
of  Fiction,  or  that  London  which  is  a 
mingling  of  both,  and  may  be  called 
simply  the  London  of  Literature,  in 
which  Oliver  Goldsmith  carouses  with 
Tom  Jones,  and  Harry  Fielding  dis- 
cusses philosophy  with  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  where  Nicholas  Nickleby 
makes  so  bold  as  to  present  himself  to 
Mr.  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  and 
to  ask  his  intercession  in  favor  of  a  poor 
artist,  the  son  of  a  hair-dresser  of  the 
name  of  Turner  in  Maiden  Lane,  and 
even  where  "Boz,"  as  he  passes  through 
Longacre,  is  tripped  up  by  the  Artful 
Dodger,  and  would  perchance  fall  upon 
the  siding  if  not  caught  in  the  friendly 
arms  of  Sir  Richard  Steele  on  his  way 
to  pay  a  call  upon  the  once  famous 
beauty,  the  Lady  Beatrix  Esmond. 

But  yesterday  I  strolled  into  Mitre 
Court,  and  threading  my  way  through 
the  labyrinth  of  those  dingy  old  law 

17 


chambers  known  as  the  Middle  and  In- 
ner Temple,  found  myself  in  the  little 
graveyard  of  the  Temple  Church  and 
by  the  side  of  the  grave  of  Oliver  Gold- 
smith. Though  less  than  a  stone 's  throw 
from  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand,  the 
place  is  quiet  enough,  only  a  faint  hum 
of  wheels  penetrating  the  cool  precincts 
and  gloomy  walls.  There,  beneath  three 
oblong  slabs,  put  together  like  an  outer 
stone  coffin,  lies  the  most  richly  endowed 
of  all  the  vagabonds,  with  the  simple 
but  sufficient  legend : 

"Here  lies  Oliver  Goldsmith, 

Born  Nov.  10th,  1728.    Died  April  4th, 

1774. " 

to  tell  a  story  which  for  all  its  vagrancy 
and  folly,  is  somewhat  dear  to  loving 
hearts.  He  died  leaving  many  debts  and 
a  few  friends.  He  lived  a  lucky-go-devil, 
who  could  squander  in  a  night  of  de- 
bauch more  than  he  could  earn  in  a 
month  of  labor.  Yet  he  gave  us  the  good 
Primrose  and  "The  Deserted  Village " 
and  "The  Traveller,"  and  many  a  care- 
dispelling  screed  beside. 
18 


The  Frenchman  would  say  "his  des- 
tiny." The  less  fanciful  Briton,  "his 
temperament. "  Poor  Noll!  He  seemed 
to  know  himself  fairly  well  in  spite  of 
his  dissipations  and  his  vanity,  and  he 
sleeps  sound  enough  now,  perhaps  as 
soundly  as  the  rest  of  those  who  in  life 
held  him  in  a  rather  equivocal  admira- 
tion and  affectionate  contempt.  There  are 
a  few  other  tombs — an  effigy  or  two — 
round  about,  the  weird  old  Chapel  of 
the  Templars,  shut  in  by  great  walls 
from  the  streets  beyond,  to  keep  them 
solemn  company.  For  Goldsmith,  at 
least,  there  seems  a  fitness;  for  his  life, 
and  such  labor  as  he  did,  eddied  round 
these  sad  precincts.  Nigh  at  hand  was 
the  Mitre  tavern,  across  the  way  the 
Cock,  and  down  the  street  the  Cheshire 
Cheese.  Without  the  Vandal  has  been 
busy  enough,  within  all  remains  as  it 
was  the  day  they  buried  him.  Perhaps 
he  was  not  a  desirable  visiting  acquaint- 
ance. I  dare  say  he  was  rather  a  trying 
familiar  friend.  Pen-craft  and  purse- 
making  are  often  wide  apart.  The  charm 
of  authorship  ends  in  most  cases  upon 

79 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


the  printed  page.  The  man  carries  his 
sentiment  in  a  globule  of  ink  and  it 
evaporates  by  exposure  to  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  world  of  action.  The  song 
of  Dickens  died  by  its  own  fireside.  Kip- 
ling, for  all  his  word-painting,  is  hardly 
a  miracle  of  grace.  Why  should  one 
wish  to  have  known  Goldsmith,  or 
grudge  him  his  place  by  the  side  of  the 
great  old  Doctor,  and  Burke,  and  Rey- 
nolds, and  Garrick?  He  lived  his  own 
life,  and,  though  it  was  not  very  clean 
and  wholly  unprosperous,  perhaps  he  en- 
joyed it.  He  left  us  some  rich  fruitage 
dangling  over  a  wall,  which  may  well 
conceal  all  else.  Of  the  dead,  no  ill! 
Their  faults  to  the  past.  The  rest  to 
Eternity ! 

Gradually,  but  surely,  a  new  London 
is  showing  itself  above  the  debris  of  the 
old.  Miles  of  roundabout  are  reduced  by 
short  cuts.  Thoroughfares  are  ruthlessly 
cut  through  sacred  precincts  and  land- 
marks obliterated  to  make  room  for  im- 
posing edifices  and  widened  streets.  In 
the  end,  London  will  be  rebuilt  to  rival 
Paris  in  the  splendor,  without  the  uni- 

20 


formity  of  its  architecture.  The  grime 
will,  of  course,  attach  itself  in  time  to  the 
modern  city  as  it  did  in  the  ancient,  so 
that  the  London  that  is  to  be  will  grow 
old  to  the  coming  generations  as  the 
London  that  was  grew  old  to  the  genera- 
tions that  went  before. 

1 '  To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-mor- 
row 

Creeps  on  this  petty  pace  from  day  to 
day, 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
the  way  to  dusty  death." 

Ever  and  ever  the  old  times,  the  dear 
old  times!  Were  they  really  any  better 
than  these ?  I  don't  think  so  —  we  only 
fancy  them  so.  They  had  their  displace- 
ments. It  was  then,  as  now,  "eat,  drink 
and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  ye  die," 
life  the  same  old  walking  shadow,  the 
same  old  play,  or,  lagging  superfluous, 
or  laughing  his  hour  upon  the  stage  and 
seen  no  more,  the  same  old 

— "tale  told  by  an  idiot, 
Full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing." 

21 


Somehow,  London  has  a  tendency  to 
call  up  such  reflections;  sombre,  serious 
itself,  to  provoke  moralizing,  albeit  a  tur- 
moil, with  incessant  flashes  of  light  and 
shade,  the  contrasts  the  vividest  and 
most  precipitate  on  earth,  deep  and  pen- 
etrating, even  from  Hyde  Park  corner 
to  St.  Martins-in-the-Fields,  and  on  east- 
ward beyond  the  Tower  and  into  the 
purlieus  of  Whitechapel  and  the  soli- 
tudes of  Bethnal  Green. 


22 


MEMORIES  OF  PARIS 


MEMORIES  OF  PARIS 

PARIS,  like  some  agreeable  people, 
has  a  winning  way  of  making  it- 
self detestable  when  put  to  it;  and 
I  have  never  known  it,  through  forty 
years  of  intimate  acquaintance,  to  take 
so  much  trouble  in  this  regard  as  dur- 
ing the  ten  days  we  spent  there. 

As  a  rule  coming  from  London  to  Par- 
is is  like  stepping  out  of  a  cold  into  a 
warm  bath.  Even  the  little  swindles 
with  which  you  are  cozened  of  your 
good  small  change  have  a  charm  about 
them.  There  is  a  constant  suspicion  of 
music  in  the  air.  The  snake-like  route 
from  the  Rue  Richelieu  at  the  head  of 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  down  by  the 
Grand  Opera  House  and  the  Madeline 
and  into  and  across  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde and  up  the  Champs  Elysees  to  the 
Arch  of  Stars  has  the  true  serpentine 
25 


fascination.  The  smell  of  the  asphalt 
is  of  the  Lotos  bloom.  The  wavings  of 
the  chestnut  boughs,  signals  of  the  for- 
bidden, are  siren.  The  glitter  is  licen- 
tious and  dazzling;  a  certain  resplend- 
ency of  costume  and  suggestion  under 
the  electric  clusters  about  the  cafes,  the 
theaters  and  the  hotels. 

Then,  the  procession — Lord —  the  pro- 
cession; the  red  legs  of  the  soldiers  and 
the  white  caps  of  the  grisettes;  ouvrier, 
cocotte  and  gamin,  helter-skelter  amid 
the  hurrying  throng  of  sight-seers,  for- 
eign and  domestic — for  even  the  genuine 
Parisian  never  ceases  to  be  a  sight-seer 
— the  procession  is  the  most  wondrous, 
the  most  ever-changing  in  the  whole 
world,  yet  always  the  same ;  and  no  end 
to  it.  Just  back  and  forth  again,  a  liv- 
ing loom  whose  shuttles  flash  through 
strands  of  many  colors,  not  always  of 
the  cleanest;  a  merry-go-round,  through 
whose  brilliant  medley  of  contradictions, 
of  laughter  and  light,  one  cannot  help 
catching  glimpses  of  another  sort  of 
Niobe,  all  tears,  of  sorrow  and  want  and 
26 


anguish.  Nor  any  lack  of  humor,  Har- 
lequin with  his  cap  and  bells. 

A  day  and  a  night  in  Paris  is  quite 
enough  for  old  stagers  at  this  time  of 
the  year.  The  ride  from  Cherbourg  is 
certainly  tiresome.  It  was  9  o'clock 
when  we  rolled  into  St.  Lazarre.  Not 
too  late,  however,  to  go  to  No.  9  Rue 
Duphot  for  a  supper  of  oysters.  The 
Column  was  still  standing  in  the  Place 
Yendome,  though  the  blinds  were  up 
in  the  shops  along  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
A  cold  and  drizzling  rain  was  falling 
from  the  skies  and  oozing  up  from  the 
asphalt.  I  looked  in  at  Henry's  and 
there  were  the  same  old  red-noses.  I 
looked  in  at  the  Chatham  and  there 
were  the  same  old  blue-noses.  Paris  does 
not  change  much. 

There  is  full  as  much  lying  about  eat- 
ing as  about  drinking;  nor  all  of  it  de- 
fensive and  exculpatory.  The  gourmet 
is  not  always  a  gourmand.  One  may  be 
fastidious  about  his  food  without  being 
a  hog.  The  good  eating  places  of  the 
world  may  be  told  off  on  one's  eight 
fingers  and  two  thumbs.  Yet,  I  have 
27 


traveled  apace  and  understand  what  is 
meant  by  the  Roast  Beef  of  Old  Eng- 
land and  the  Poulet  Roti  of  France,  by 
a  chop  in  London  and  a  saute  in  Paris, 
by  boiled  Turbot  in  Mayfair  and  a  Sole 
au  Joinville  at  Champoux's  in  the  Place 
de  la  Bourse,  and — to  return  to  our  mut- 
ton— by  a  Bouillebaisse  in  Marseille. 
As  Pascal  used  to  build  it,  the  Bouilla- 
baisse was  just  what  Thackeray  describes 
it— 

"A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew, 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 
#         #        #         #  *         *         # 

Green  herbs,  red-peppers,  mussels,  saf- 
fron, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach  and  dace. ' ' 

to  which  the  coquillage  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean Sea,  infinite  in  their  variety, 
peculiarly  lent  themselves.  Old  Terre 
may  have  introduced  it  to  Paris.  That 
was  before  my  time.  Philipe  was  my 
man,  Philipe,  like  Terre,  "dead  this 
many  a  day."  They  still  serve  it  on 
Fridays  at  Champoux's  and  at  the 
28 


Boeuf  a  la  Mode  away  east  of  the  old 
Palais  Royal. 

Dissertations  upon  food  are  only  a 
trifle  less  dangerous  than  dissertations 
upon  drink.  The  dissertator  is  likely,  if 
not  berated  and  condemned  outright,  to 
be  suspected,  even  by  the  friendliest, 
with  regard  both  to  his  appetite  and  his 
parts  of  speech.  Thackeray,  taking  his 
cue  from  Horace,  made  it  his  wont  to 
speak  fearlessly,  and  with  surpassing 
knowledge  and  freedom  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  table.  " Respect  thy  dinner,"  was 
his  key-note.  It  is  often  said  of  his 
writing  that  "the  claret-stains  are  vis- 
ible, ' '  as  if  any  man  ever  did  any  really 
good  writing  under  vinous  influence ;  as 
if,  to  impart  life  to  its  reader,  to  lift 
his  reader  skyward,  a  writer  must  not 
have  about  him  all  his  faculties  and  re- 
sources. The  hapless,  the  much  misun- 
derstood, and  often  maligned,  author  of 
"Pendennis"  and  "Vanity  Fair"  had  a 
good  digestion,  and  made  it  an  article  of 
faith  e  'en  to  eat  and  drink  his  fill ;  per- 
haps his  prose-poems  in  praise  of  food 
were  in  a  sense  imprudent  in  a  man  of 

29 


his  dignity  and  weight  in  the  world  of 
letters;  that  entitled  "Memorials  of 
Gormandizing"  is  certainly  a  master- 
piece; but  he  who  has  left  us  "The  Bal- 
lad of  Bouillabaisse"  can  afford  a  good 
deal  of  detraction  from  the  unsympa- 
thetic, as  of  misconstruction  from  the 
critical. 

Was  ever  philosophy  wiser,  sweeter? 
Could  there  be  less  of  literary  affecta- 
tion, more  of  manly  candor?  I  have 
never  been  able  to  read  aloud  the  verse 
next  to  the  last,  not  even  to  myself, 
without  that  lumpy  sensation  in  the 
throat,  which  moves  one  to  seek  the  se- 
clusion of  a  darkened  chamber.  The 
tragedy  of  that  man's  life!  It  was  but 
yesterday  that  the  poor,  distraught  lady 
— once  "the  fair  form  nestled  near  me" 
— that  "dear,  dear  face  that  looked  fond- 
ly up" — making  the  beginning  of  life  a 
dream  of  happiness  to  the  most  affec- 
tionate and  impressionable  of  men — was 
borne  to  her  final  rest  from  the  Retreat, 
where  she  had  dwelt  nearly  sixty  years, 
surviving  her  husband  by  nearly  forty. 
He  a  cynic ! 

30 


Yesterday  we  went  out  to  Chantilly. 
It  was  the  ancient  home  of  the  Mont- 
morencys  and  the  Condes.  Next  after 
Versailles  and  Fontainebleau  it  is  the 
most  interesting  and  best  preserved  of 
the  royal  remains  about  Paris.  Of  the 
Kings  and  puppets,  the  Queens  and 
Harlots,  the  Saints,  Sinners  and  Heroes, 
who  dwelt  in  these  palaces  it  may  be 
truly  said  that — 

' '  While  they  lived  they  lived  in  clover, 
When  they  died,  they  died  all  over. ' ' 

God  of  dreams,  how  they  perished  and 
have  vanished! 

At  Chantilly,  among  the  many  ob- 
jects of  chivalry  and  frivolity  that  pre- 
sent to  the  eye  of  the  stranger  their 
ghastly  and  shameless  effigies  in  bronze 
and  marble,  from  the  mounted  statue 
of  the  old  Constable  Anne  de  Mont- 
morency  standing  watch  and  guard  over 
the  entrance  of  the  chateau,  to  the  tomb 
of  Henry  the  Second  of  Bourbon,  the 
Grand  Condo,  within  its  chapel,  two  por- 
traits caught  my  fancy,  transfixed  my 
attention  and  made  me  captive  to  th§ 
31 


exclusion  of  the  rarer  objects  that  filled 
the  winding  galleries ;  the  one  of  Talley- 
rand by  Ary  Scheffer,  the  other  of  Bona- 
parte as  First  Consul,  by  Frangois  Ger- 
ard; both  originals,  of  course,  and  hu- 
manly, vividly  life-like. 

If  the  proper  study  of  man  is  man,  no 
two  men  who  ever  lived  will  better  re- 
pay perusal.  Napoleon  was  the  genius 
of  action  applied  to  arms.  Talleyrand 
was  the  genius  of  intellect  applied  to 
civics.  Had  Napoleon  listened  to  Tal- 
leyrand his  dynasty  might  to-day  be 
occupying  the  seats  of  the  mighty  held 
by  a  peasant  President  even  as  the  dy- 
nasty of  Bernadotte,  brother-in-law  of 
Joseph  Bonaparte,  survives  in  far-away 
Sweden.  Talleyrand,  himself,  success- 
fully riding  every  wave  of  a  tempest 
which  abated  not  its  fury  his  whole  life 
through,  died  at  a  great  age  in  honor 
and  power ;  wise  counsellor  to  every  par- 
ty he  agreed  to  serve,  traitor  to  none 
that  was  true  to  itself  and  France,  in- 
dispensable to  all. 

I  have  passed  through  all  the  Na- 
poleonic stages;  the  boy's  adoration  of 

32 


the  prowess  of  the  warrior;  the  man's 
reaction  against  tyranny  and  havoc ;  the 
student's  period  of  suspended  judgment, 
of  reflection  and  research,  to  settle  upon 
a  definite  belief  touching  the  most  com- 
plicate and  interesting  human  problem 
the  world  has  thus  far  had  to  consider 
in  its  reading  of  history.  This  portrait 
of  Gerard's  tended  to  confirm  my  im- 
pression. It  represents  a  young  man  of 
eight  and  twenty,  rather  pale  and  thin 
of  visage,  with  dark  chestnut  locks  and 
deep,  blue-gray  eyes  full  of  sadness,  of 
lips  weak  and  feminine;  not  a  particle 
of  the  self -consciousness  which  appears 
in  the  later  pictures,  nor  the  least  pos- 
ing for  effect.  It  is  not  the  Napoleon  of 
the  battle-pieces;  not  the  Napoleon  of 
the  Coronation,  of  Elba  and  Waterloo 
and  St.  Helena,  "  grand,  gloomy  and 
peculiar ; "  it  is  the  Napoleon  of  St.  Cyr 
and  the  Rue  St.  Honore;  the  dreamer 
who  owed  San  Gene  his  wash  bill;  the 
solicitous  brother  who  watched  tenderly 
over  little  Louis ;  the  sentimentalist  who 
fell  in  love  with  the  widow  Beauhar- 
nais;  the  poor  Corsican,  not  yet  full- 

33 


knowing  of  his  power,  a  very  youth  in 
the  simplicity  and  earnestness  with 
which  he  seemed  to  return  my  heart- 
throbs of  compassion  and  sympathy. 

I  could  have  gone  away  and  cried 
with  the  thought  of  him  and  them,  and 
all  of  it;  the  fall  from  grace;  the  de- 
lirium of  ambition;  the  debauch  of 
glory;  ending  upon  a  lone,  barren  isle 
of  the  ocean  in  one  long  wail  of  de- 
spair, Prometheus  bound  to  the  rock, 
not  in  fiction,  or  drama,  but  in  real, 
actual  life,  in  living  flesh  and  blood. 

Yet  he  remains  the  most  captivating 
figure  of  history.  Millions  of  pages 
have  been  written,  and  will  be  written, 
about  him.  Myriads  go  over  yonder  to 
the  little  rotunda  under  the  gilded  dome 
and  look  down  with  awe  upon  the  splen- 
did tomb  below.  Once  upon  a  time  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  monster  lay  sleep- 
ing there;  perish  the  thought  of  it; 
merely  a  man  of  surpassing  gifts  in 
martial  arts,  and  many  moral  infirmi- 
ties, the  sport  and  prey  of  fortune,  far 
more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed.  To  me 
he  seems  a  brilliant  gambler,  who  out- 
34 


played  his  hand,  and  outstayed  his  for- 
tune, the  salle  de  jouer  a  continent  in- 
stead of  a  baize  green  beneath  a  glit- 
tering chandelier. 

The  environs  of  Paris,  hardly  less 
than  Paris  itself,  are  deeply  impressive. 
They  awaken  all  that  is  responsive  in 
the  heart,  all  that  is  thoughtful  and  in- 
telligent in  the  mind  of  cultivated  man. 
From  Mont  Valerian  upon  either  hand 
round  the  magic  circle  of  wood  and 
dale,  Versailles  and  Fontainebleau,  the 
hill  of  St.  Cloud  and  the  terrace  of  St. 
Germaine,  the  villages  of  Ville  D'Av- 
ray  and  of  Barbaison,  every  footstep 
leads  across  the  migrations  of  love  and 
daring,  over  the  tombs  of  all  that  was 
stubborn  in  patriotism,  heroism  and  ro- 
mance when  knighthood  was  in  flower 
and  valiants  were  ready  to  look  danger 
in  the  eye  and  laugh  death  in  the  face 
for  sake  of  a  blue  ribbon  or  a  bunch  of 
violets.  But  among  the  many  spots 
which  memory  gives  to  the  Odyssey  of 
tears  none  arouses  interest  of  the  senti- 
mental sort  more  than  Malmaison,  some- 
35 


time  the  home  of  Rose  Tascher,  generally 
called  Josephine  Beauharnais. 

The  grounds  are  ample,  with  plenty 
of  outhouses  and  stables  such  as  one 
might  have  seen  in  Virginia  during  the 
Colonial  period.  There  is  a  little  adja- 
cent private  chapel.  A  brook  wimples 
through  the  lichens.  The  swards  are 
beginning  to  be  swept,  the  trees  to  be 
trimmed,  the  flower  beds  to  be  tended, 
and,  as  the  encroachments  of  the  ad- 
vancing city  have  not  quite  reached  thus 
far  inland,  there  is  not  wanting  an  air 
of  rustic  isolation,  which  falls  in  agree- 
ably with  the  sense  of  fitness. 

The  day  was  overcast,  as  it  should 
have  been,  when  we  went  there.  Only 
now  and  then  a  glint  of  sunlight  broke 
through  clouds  that  were  not  of  the 
spring,  but  of  the  autumn.  An  officer 
in  uniform  showed  us  through  the  more 
than  half  empty  rooms  and  halls,  and 
up  the  winding  stairs,  unchanged  for 
a  century.  This  was  the  music-room — 
in  it  the  harp  of  the  first  Empress,  pre- 
sented by  the  Second — and  here  was  the 
cozy,  rather  than  elegant,  dining-room, 

36 


with  a  set  of  table  ornaments,  very  in- 
elegant, presented  to  Napoleon  by  the 
King  of  Saxony.  Above  were  three  con- 
necting apartments;  first,  that  of  the 
Emperor,  then  a  primitive  bath-room 
opening  into  the  bed  chamber  of  Joseph- 
ine, the  bed  upon  which  she  died  un- 
disturbed, and  last  the  boudoir  of  Hor- 
tense ;  all  extremely  light  and  airy,  over- 
looking the  garden  in  the  rear.  The 
house  is  oblong,  having  very  little  dec- 
oration except  a  pair  of  gables  at  either 
end  and  two  miniature  obelisks,  presum- 
ably brought  by  Napoleon  from  Egypt, 
along  with  a  number  of  Egyptian  por- 
traits that  adorn  one  of  the  reception 
rooms. 

Napoleon  was  certainly  an  idealist 
and  a  day-dreamer,  largely  a  man  of 
the  affections.  There  can  be  little  doubt 
that  he  possessed  a  credulous  and  a  lov- 
ing heart.  He  made  a  good  son  and 
more  than  a  good  brother.  The  whole 
of  them  were  an  unruly  lot.  He  showed 
himself  a  loyal  friend.  He  got  little  else 
than  ingratitude.  He  adored  Josephine. 
37 


She  returned  his  adoration  with  infidel- 
ity. 

That  he  ever  put  a  crown  upon  the 
head  of  a  woman  so  faithless  and  friv- 
olous can  only  be  accounted  for  by  the 
fact  that  he  idolized  her  and  forgave 
her,  for  her  misbehavior  was  not  un- 
known to  him.  He  loved  her  when  he 
put  her  away  from  him  and  suffered 
more  than  she  did.  It  was  the  stepping 
down  and  out  of  regal  splendor,  not 
the  breaking  of  conjugal  bonds  she  had 
never  respected,  nor  the  sundering  of 
ties  of  companionship  she  never  ap- 
preciated, which  brought  the  tears  the 
poor  woman  shed.  A  light-headed  Creole 
reared  in  the  school  of  the  decadence, 
demoralized,  if  not  debauched,  by  the 
horrors  and  excesses  of  the  French  Rev- 
olution, Napoleon  came  across  the  disc 
of  the  loose  life  she  was  leading ;  first  as 
a  little  monster  and  then  as  a  queer 
prodigy,  whom  she  took  because  she 
could  do  no  better,  and  whom  she  never 
understood. 

The  divorce  was  a  mistake.  Josephine, 
whatever  else  she  may,  or  may  not,  have 

38 


been,  was  Napoleon's  Mascotte.  During 
his  mismated  life  with  Marie  Louise  he 
often  visited  Malmaison  and  passed 
hours  with  this  the  wife  of  his  youth 
and  his  bosom,  much  to  the  worry  of  the 
frowsy  and  ignoble  Austrian  woman  he 
had  for  reasons  of  State  and  dynasty 
taken  in  her  stead  and  who  had  brought 
him  nothing  but  trouble  and  ill-fortune. 
When  Napoleon  returned  from  Elba, 
Josephine  having  died  during  his  ab- 
sence, hither  he  came  as  to  an  altar  of 
mourning.  Hortense  showed  him  silent- 
ly into  the  room  where  she  had  breathed 
her  last  and  gently  closed  the  door.  He 
stayed  an  hour  and  when  he  came  out 
his  eyes  were  red  with  weeping.  Yet 
there  are  those  who  would  have  us  be- 
lieve that  this  was  a  man  of  blood  and 
iron. 

I  do  not  think  Josephine  was  a  bad 
woman;  she  was  a  weak,  a  vain  and 
foolish  woman,  who  could  not  rise  to 
her  fortunes.  Except  for  her  insuffi- 
ciency she  could  have  held  her  place  to 
the  end.  She  died  the  29th  of  May, 
1814,  at  Malmaison,  and  was  buried  June 

39 


2nd,  in  the  little  Parish  of  Ruell,  hard 
by.  Over  her  grave  a  monument,  bear- 
ing the  figure  of  a  recumbent  and  weep- 
ing woman,  was  placed  by  her  two  child- 
ren. It  bears  the  inscription,  "A  Joseph- 
ine "  and  below  "Eugene  and  Hor- 
tense. ' '  In  1837,  Hortense  died  and  was 
brought  here  for  interment  by  the  side 
of  her  mother,  the  Emperor  Louis  Na- 
poleon, her  son,  later  along,  erecting  a 
monument  over  her  grave. 

Our  party  visited  the  little  old  church 
and  stood  by  the  grave  of  these  two  frail, 
fair  and  unfortunate  women;  least  for- 
tunate in  their  splendor.  I  have  stood 
by  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  many  a  time 
— the  emotions  varied  and  varying — and 
the  emotions  here,  though  mingled, 
were  mostly  of  pity  and  sadness.  Do 
you  remember  the  visit  of  Col.  Henry 
Esmond  to  the  grave  of  his  mother  in 
the  lowlands,  the  shadow  of  the  crosses 
upon  the  hillside,  the  tinkle  of  the  bell 
in  the  valley?  Well,  something  of  that 
visitation  crept  over  me  as  I  stood  in 
this  church  of  Ruell.  Here,  too,  was  a 
woman  who  had  climbed  high  in  dream- 

40 


land,  like  a  star  to  fall,  never  to  hope 
again.  Who  shall  judge  her?  Surely 
not  Paul  Barras.  Nor  the  shade  of 
Tallien  point  finger  at  her ;  not  even  the 
ghost  of  Bonaparte. 

There  is  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  an  upright 
shaft  of  granite  above  the  last  resting 
place  of  a  woman  of  genius  —  of  sur- 
passing beauty  and  genius — whose  life 
was  a  defiance — poor  Ada  Isaacs  Men- 
ken— bearing  the  two  significant  words 
— "Thou  Knowest."  And  so  with  Rosa 
Tascher,  otherwise  Josephine  Beauhar- 
naise,  whilom  Empress  of  France.  Yet, 
let  us  not  forget  the  man  in  the  case. 
He  too  suffered.  He  too  fell.  Nor  all 
the  gorgeous  trappings  beneath  the  gild- 
ed dome  that  rises  over  the  Champ  de 
Mars,  nor  the  drums  and  tramplings  of 
the  legions  that  idolize  his  memory,  may 
soothe  one  aching  heart-throb,  nor  lessen 
by  a  single  drop  of  blood,  or  tears,  the 
usurious  price  he  paid  for  his  glory! 


41 


OUR  ARMY  IN  FLANDERS 


OUR  ARMY  IN  FLANDERS 

THE  Low  Countries  have  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember  held  a 
wand  of  enchantment  over  my  er- 
rant fancies.  ' '  Our  Army  in  Flanders, ' ' 
from  the  lips  of  my  Uncle  Toby,  told 
me  of  broils  and  battles,  of  swearing  and 
strong  drink,  when  I  was  but  a  kid  in 
knee-breeches.  I  followed  Quentin  Dur- 
ward  from  Lille  to  Liege,  from  Antwerp 
to  Limoges,  from  the  Hague  to  Hell, 
and  back  again.  The  story  of  Gerard 
and  Margaret,  of  Rotterdam,  the  fa- 
ther and  mother  of  Erasmus,  never  fails 
to  bring  tears  to  my  eyes,  and  I  yet 
choke  with  the  thought  of  the  visit  paid 
by  Henry  Esmond  to  the  grave  of  his 
mother  "upon  a  little,  sunlit  hillock 
outside  the  convent  wall."  Aix  brings 
back  Browning's  breezy  verses,  Bruges 
Longfellow's  melodious  poem,  whilst 
45 


the  very  railway  time-tables  make  Marl- 
borough  and  Conde  and  Turenne,  to  say 
nothing  of  Napoleon  and  Wellington,  to 
live  and  fight  again. 

There  were  heroes  as  well  as  giants  in 
those  days.  The  dykes  mirror  their  mem- 
ory to  the  stars  and  the  chimes  proclaim 
it  from  tower  and  steeple — "My  name 
is  Roland "  still  sounds  from  the  Belfry 
over  the  market-place.  "When  I  toll 
there  is  fire,  and  when  I  ring  there  is 
triumph/'  as  many  a  time  in  days  of 
yore  it  thundered  responsive  to  the 
Bells  of  Bruges — shall  you  ever  forget 
the  lines — exclaiming — 

"Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er 
lagoon  and  dyke  of  sand, 

1 1  am  Roland !  I  am  Roland !  there  is 
victory  in  the  land.'  3 

I  catch  the  hoof -beats  of  Alva's  horse, 
the  thud,  thud,  thud  of  the  Burgundian 
cuirassiers,  the  furious  charge  of  the 
legions  of  Otterberg  and  Orange.  I  see 
the  White  Hoods  swarm  in  the  Place 
d'Armes.  Why,  bless  you,  at  this  mo- 
ment I  am  looking  out  of  a  window 
46 


across  the  peaked  eaves  and  crooked  ga- 
bles upon  the  monster  ruins  of  the  an- 
cient castle  of  the  Counts  of  Flanders 
frowning  to  the  skies,  as  dark  and  mas- 
sive a  fortress  as  the  Middle  Ages  have 
sent  down  to  us  to  mark  the  reign  of 
despotism  and  the  thralldom  of  man; 
and  I  have  stood  before  the  Statue  of 
Jacques  Van  Artevelde,  and,  as  in  a 
dream,  drunk  of  the  Heaven-born  in- 
spiration of  freedom.  Alas,  for  all  his 
service  to  the  people  and  the  State  they 
murdered  him,  and  yonder  is  the  spot 
— it  is  marked  by  a  cross — where  he 
lived  and  died! 

It  was  Philip  Van  Artevelde,  more 
than  his  father  Jacob,  or  Jacques  Van 
Artevelde,  who  was  early  impressed 
upon  me  by  the  unacted  and  unactable 
tragedy  of  Sir  Henry  Taylor.  The  oth- 
er day  I  tried  to  get  a  copy  of  it,  hav- 
ing lost  my  own.  It  is  out  of  print.  I 
wonder  how  many  educated  Americans 
know  of  it — the  most  Shakespearean 
dramatic  poem  after  Shakespeare  in 
our  language?  There  is  no  monument 
to  Philip  Van  Artevelde  in  Ghent.  His 
47 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


career  was  neither  so  long,  nor  so  iden- 
tified with  civic  affairs  as  that  of 
Jacques;  but  it  was  surpassing  fine 
whilst  it  lasted.  He  took  the  helm  at  a 
venture  in  desperate  times — a  bookish 
youth,  with  a  fair  and  noble  lady  to 
share  his  elegant  leisure,  along  with  the 
sense  of  a  deep  wrong  as  a  reason  for 
keeping  out  of  public  life — serving  as  a 
kind  of  jury-mast  whereof  to  prop  the 
canvas  of  the  tottering  Commonwealth. 

It  often  happens  that  the  people 
know  not  what  is  best  for  them,  that 
they  are  cheated  and  misled  by  rogues 
and  demagogues,  that  they  forget  their 
servants  and  alternate  between  the  ad- 
oration and  the  rending  of  their  idols. 
It  was  so  in  the  days  of  the  Arteveldes 
and  the  DeWitts.  It  is  so  in  our  day. 
It  will  continue  so  to  the  end  of  popu- 
lar Government,  which  nevertheless  is 
the  best  Government  in  the  world,  be- 
ing, like  all  other  mundane  things,  im- 
perfect. 

Philip  Van  Artevelde  took  the  field 
and  in  the  teeth  of  incredible  odds  held 
it  until  at  last  he  bravely  fell  in  disas- 
48 


trous  battle.  When  they  found  him — 
as  Davy  Crockett  was  found — amid  a 
heap  of  the  slain  of  his  own  hand,  and 
were  about  to  hurl  his  body  into  a 
neighboring  trench,  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, against  whom  he  had  fought 
so  long  and  so  well,  and  who  had  rid- 
den up  betimes,  stayed  the  threatened 
desecration.  "Nay,  not  so,"  he  said — 
I  am  quoting  from  memory  out  of  Sir 
Henry  Taylor's  drama  and  must  be  for- 
given if  I  trip  upon  a  word  or  two — 

"Nay,  not  so"— 

— "dire  rebel  though  he  was, 
Yet  with  a  noble  nature  and  great  gifts 
Was  he  endowed;  courage,  discretion, 

wit, 

An  equal  temper  and  an  ample  soul, 
Rock-bound  'gainst  transitory  passion, 
But  below,  built  on  a  surging,  subter- 
ranean flood 

That  stirred  and  lifted  him  to  high  at- 
tempt ; 

So  prompt  and  capable,  and  yet  so  calm, 
He  nothing  lacked  of  sovereignty,  but 

the  right, 

Nothing  of  soldiership  except  good  for- 
tune ; 

49 


Wherefore  with  honor  lay  him  in  his 

grave, 
And   thereby   shall   increase   of   honor 

come 
Unto  those  arms  that  vanquished  one  so 

wise, 
So  valiant,  so  renowned!" 

Not  an  unfitting  inscription  to  be 
placed  by  the  people  of  the  North  upon 
a  monument  to  be  erected  at  Arlington 
in  commemoration  of  Robert  E.  Lee. 

They  call  it  "Gand"  curiously 
enough.  I  was  never  in  "Gand"  before. 
Resolved  not  again  to  pass  a  spot  so 
historic  and  exhilarating,  we  took  the 
boat  from  Dover  to  Ostend — by  far  the 
most  splendid  seaside  resort  in  the 
world,  albeit,  the  season  was  over — and 
including  Bruges  by  the  way,  we  rolled 
into  the  quaint  old  city  that  once  vied 
with  Venice  and  Antwerp  for  the  com- 
mercial supremacy  of  the  universe,  and 
which,  though  submerged  as  a  metrop- 
olis, is  still  rich  and  prosperous. 

It  was  in  the  Carthusian  Convent, 
where  the  famous  Congress  of  Ghent 
assembled  in  1814,  of  which  Talleyrand 

50 


and  Metternich  were  the  leading  figures, 
and  where  the  signing  of  the  Treaty  of 
Peace  between  England  and  the  United 
States  was  witnessed,  Clay,  Adams  and 
Gallatin  being  three  of  our  Commis- 
sioners. 

In  the  Clay  homestead  of  Ashland, 
near  Lexington,  there  hangs  a  picture 
which  has  a  story.  It  was  won  by 
Henry  Clay  from  Albert  Gallatin  at  a 
game  of  "Old  Sledge/7  it  having  been 
won  in  the  first  place  by  Gallatin  him- 
self at  a  church  raffle  in  Ghent.  "I 
liked  the  picture,"  said  Mr.  Clay — as  I 
have  heard  Mr.  Beck  relate  the  inci- 
dent —  '  '  and  Gallatin  had  neither  taste 
nor  knowledge  of  pictures.  But  he 
thought  he  could  beat  me  at  'seven  up.' 
So  I  proposed  to  play  him  the  best  two 
out  of  three  for  possession.  Well,  we 
played — and  thar's  the  picture!" 

Nowhere  in  the  world  can  philosophy 
survey  history  in  its  relation  to  civic 
affairs,  embracing  national  and  popular 
vicissitudes,  the  rise  and  fall  of  parties, 
the  outer  perils  and  the  internal  con- 
vulsions of  the  State  with  better  ad- 

51 


vantage  than  here  in  Ghent.  Democracy 
was,  during  five  hundred  years,  nowhere 
so  exemplified  and  tested.  It  is  much 
to  say  that  it  was  not  a  total  failure. 
History  does  not  often  repeat  herself, 
but  human  nature  does,  for  human  na- 
ture is  ever  the  same  tangled  web  of 
good  and  evil,  of  greed  and  pelf,  of  high 
ideals  and  degrading  passions — the 
strong  seeking  to  lord  it  over  the  weak, 
the  cunning  to  overreach  the  simple; 
each  result  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the 
merest  toss-up  of  fortune. 


52 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 

SKYWABD,  fleecy  clouds,  here  and 
there  tinted  with  opal  and  russet, 
upon  a  field  of  blue;  seaward, 
glimpses  of  crested  waves  tumbling 
into  pebbly  nooks,  and  distant,  sun-lit 
sails  filled  by  winds  from  Never-never- 
land,  and  bound  for  No-Place-in-Par- 
ticular;  midway,  betwixt  Heaven  and 
Earth  and  Ocean,  the  rugged  peaks  of 
the  Pyrenees,  purple-dark  and  snow- 
flecked,  like  velvet  jerkin  of  medieval 
Don,  slashed  with  white  satin — vine- 
yards and  olive-groves  clinging  tena- 
ciously and  lovingly  to  mouldering  walls 
— now  and  then  a  belated  village,  or  a 
lost  hamlet,  forgotten  by  the  Deluge  and 
left  high  and  dry  to  play  hide-and-seek 
with  Destiny — that  is  the  route  from 
Narbonne  to  Perpignan,  from  Perpignan 
to  Cerbere  and  thence  across  the  Franco- 

55 


Spanish  border,  to  Port  Bou,  and  there 
you  are;  there  you  are,  a  full-fledged 
Grandee — in  case  you  come  down  with 
the  stamps,  as  the  saying  hath  it,  freely 
to  the  customs  officials — a  bandit  of  the 
Captain  Eolando  class,  in  case  you  don't 
— and  well  upon  your  journey  to  Bar- 
celona. 

Alexander  Dumas  it  was  who  de- 
clared Spain  to  be  in  Africa,  not  in  Eu- 
rope. He  meant,  of  course,  that  it  is 
more  African  than  European.  True 
enough,  despite  their  Latin  origin,  the 
Spaniard  and  the  Frenchman  are  most 
unalike. 

Queer  what  pranks  Dame  Nature 
plays,  and  equally  upon  mice,  moun- 
tains and  men;  the  low-lander  differing 
from  the  high-lander;  the  white-mouse 
from  the  gray-mouse,  according  to  Mr. 
Master-of -Bee-Ceremonies,  Maeterlinck, 
working  at  cross-purposes;  a  single  line 
of  hills  separating  two  distinct  races  and 
racial  systems,  marking  the  distinction 
not  merely  on  the  map,  but  in  language, 
climate,  custom,  mental  process,  pro- 
ductivity and  outgrowth  of  every  kind 

56 


and  degree.  "What  could  the  dread  old 
Vestal  have  meant  by  such  perversities? 
Is  she  a  Humorist,  and  did  she  seek  to 
amuse  herself?  Or,  a  Tragedy  Queen, 
cruel  and  vengeful,  loving  strife  and 
carnage,  tears  and  sorrow,  because  of 
some  early  disappointment  of  her  own? 
The  poets  call  her  beautiful.  The  phil- 
osophers praise  her  bounty.  Me !  I  hate 
her;  but  I  fear  her  and  obey  her;  am 
ready  ever  at  her  beck  and  call — 

"  Her  slightest  touches  instant  pause, 
Debar  a'  side  pretenses, 
And  resolutely  keep  her  laws, 
Uncaring  consequences, ' ' 

but  I  detest  her  and  them;  fickle,  re- 
morseless both! 

Barcelona  is,  in  some  of  its  aspects, 
even  as  brilliant  as  Paris.  The  Eambla 
may  fairly  claim  kinship  with  the 
Boulevard  des  Italiens,  the  Plaza  de 
Cataluna  with  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
less  the  decorations.  In  Paris,  where 
it  is  not  French,  it  is  cosmopolitan;  in 
Barcelona,  it  is  mainly  Spanish,  the 
cloak  of  the  cabaleros,  the  mantilla  of 
57 


the  senoras  conspicuous;  an  air  of  so- 
lemnity more  conspicuous  still ;  nothing 
loud,  or  hysterical ;  the  very  cries  of  the 
newsboys  a  little  subdued,  and  no  so- 
licitation, except  from  the  beggars,  who 
are,  however,  almost  as  much  in  evi- 
dence as  fleas,  or  lazzaroni,  in  Naples. 
The  new  Spain,  of  which  we  hear  so 
much,  may  be  upon  the  way,  but  it  has 
not  yet  arrived,  albeit  Barcelona  is  a 
modern  city  —  that  is  the  Barcelona 
which  has  grouped  itself  around  the  old 
medieval  town — in  all  its  appointments, 
and  a  most  rich  and  beautiful  city  in- 
deed. 

The  elbowing  of  the  antique  and  the 
current  makes  some  strange  contrasts. 
Old  Barcelona  lies  about  the  water's 
edge,  pierced  here  and  there  by  a  broad 
avenue  connecting  New  Barcelona  with 
the  quays.  These  avenues  are  lined 
with  handsome  buildings.  Turn  out  of 
one  of  them  and  you  stand  face  to  face 
with  all  that  is  quaint  in  streetdom, 
feudal  in  architecture;  little,  narrow 
lanes  running  zig-zag  one  into  another, 
overhung  by  sky-scrapers  which  seem 

58 


to  touch  roofs,  and  from  whose  bal- 
conies lovers  might  touch  hands;  the 
walls  built  to  stand  against  assault; 
great  iron  doorways,  and  tiny  loop- 
hole windows;  no  room  for  battering 
ram,  small  hope  for  ladders  of  silk,  or 
rope,  or  fancy. 

They  are  as  polite  as  the  French — but 
gentler,  statelier;  plenty  of  independ- 
ence, but  no  swagger.  An  English 
woman,  whose  relative  had  bought  her 
a  bunch  of  violets,  paying  five  pesetas 
for  it,  sought  the  booth  in  the  flower 
market  whence  the  violets  had  come, 
and  taxed  the  old  woman  in  charge 
with  extortion.  "Madame,"  says  she, 
"give  me  back  four  pesetas  and  I  will 
return  you  the  flowers. ' '  With  the  most 
perfect  courtesy  the  old  woman  replied : 
"Madame,  here  are  your  five  pesetas, 
and  you  may  keep  the  flowers. " 

We  went  to  the  cafe  Novedades  to 
see  the  old  year  out  and  the  new  year 
in.  This  cafe  is  the  most  respleiidently 
lighted  of  any  in  the  world,  and,  per- 
haps it  is  the  largest.  It  was  crowded 
to  the  uttermost.  A  Viennese  band  was 

59 


in  attendance,  the  leader  a  fair-haired 
Austrian,  who  knew  her  business,  and, 
in  honor  of  her  American  guests,  gave 
us  a  cake-walk  on  the  turn  of  the 
hour,  whilst  the  drum  tapped  twelve, 
and  the  assembled  throng  with  perfect 
decorum  yet  not  without  enthusiasm, 
gave  a  welcoming  huzza.  The  place 
swarmed  with  women  and  children,  old 
women  and  young  women,  dandies  and 
men-about-town,  nor  anything  tipsy,  or 
unclean,  a  thing  impossible  in  Paris. 

The  French  love  to  dance  and  to 
sing,  but  at  bottom  I  have  a  fancy  that 
the  Spaniards  love  music  more  than  the 
French.  The  Cafe  Chantants  of  Barce- 
lona are  famous.  They  are  also  nu- 
merous. Two  of  them  indeed  are 
far  and  away  ahead  of  the  Moulin 
Rouge  in  Paris,  and  the  Alhambra  in 
London;  equally  brilliant,  whilst  much 
more  odd  and  attractive. 

There  is  little  or  no  vulgarity  on  the 
stage.  The  demi-mondaine  is  around, 
of  course,  but  she  is  neither  impudent 
nor  aggressive,  keeps  in  the  back- 
ground and  shows  fewer  signs  of  de- 

60 


bauchery  than  elsewhere.  In  public 
and  in  Spain  Carmen  must  behave  her- 
self. Calve  makes  up  the  part,  and 
sings  and  plays  it  very  well,  as  such 
parts  go;  but  in  actual  life  I  have  seen 
many  such  who  could  far  surpass  her 
acting  in  the  decorous,  albeit  decollette, 
graces  and  the  pretty,  though  artificial, 
modesty  of  the  real  wanton.  They  dance 
divinely — particularly  the  Andalusians. 
None  of  them  rely  upon  high-kicking 
and  short  skirts.  Their  use  of  the  cas- 
tanet  possesses  a  rythm  no  less  than  a 
rattle  all  their  own.  They  melt  and  die 
away  in  the  languor  of  the  music,  and, 
presto,  a  shimmer  of  white  tulle,  a  flash 
of  red  satin  and  black  eyes,  they  are 
gone. 

The  journey  betwixt  Barcelona  and 
Madrid,  unlike  that  betwixt  Dan  and 
Beersheba,  is,  and  very  decidedly,  "all 
barren. "  The  best  parts  of  Spain  are 
very  like  the  worst  parts  of  Florida. 
Looking  from  the  car-window  as  one 
wakens  a  night  out  from  Barcelona  on 
his  way  to  Madrid,  he  might  fancy  him- 
self traversing  the  "bad  lands "  of  North 

61 


Dakota ;  gravel-beds  and  stubble,  with  a 
glimpse  of  far-away  snow-mountains 
such  as  one  begins  to  descry  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  foot-hills  of  the  Rockies. 
Madrid  itself  sits  upon  an  arid  plateau 
among  the  foot-hills  of  the  Guardaram- 
ma,  an  ugly,  half -built  imitation  of  Paris. 
There  is  little  to  be  seen  here,  or  here- 
abouts, except  the  Museum  with  its  rich 
deposits  of  Murillos,  Velasquez  and 
Goyas,  and  the  Escorial,  with  its  not 
very  rich  deposit  of  royal  bones,  topped 
by  those  of  Charles  V  and  Philip  II,  of 
memory  hated,  or  sainted,  according  to 
the  theologic  point  of  view. 

Picture  galleries,  let  me  say  at  once, 
have  never  very  much  taken  my  fancy. 
I  remember  them  for  the  most  part  by 
the  mile  and  rate  them  at  their  market 
value.  Doubtless  the  "old  masters " 
drew  scientifically.  They  had  made  a 
close  study  of  nature  and  anatomy.  They 
had  learned  the  trick  of  color.  Every  now 
and  then  there  breaks  out  from  their 
stiff  canvases  a  beaming  face,  or  a  flash- 
ing thought.  But  their  subject  themes 
mainly  affront  and  disgust  me.  I  do 

62 


not  like  the  materialization  of  Heavenly 
things,  the  attempt  at  a  visible  present- 
ment of  the  spiritual.  Murillo's  Virgin 
Mary  is  the  loveliest  portrait  of  a  shep- 
herd girl  to  my  poor  eyes,  nothing  more 
—Velasquez's  Crucifixion  of  Christ  most 
realistic  and  horrible.  Alike  in  the  gal- 
leries of  the  Uffizi  at  Florence,  in  the 
Louvre  at  Paris  and  here  in  the  Real 
Museo  de  Pinturas  the  endless  Bible 
pictures  seem  perfunctory,  hard  and 
cold,  as  if  made  to  the  order  of  some 
grim  recluse,  or  dogmatic  controversial- 
ist, who  says  "believe  as  I  do,  or  I  will 
kill  you."  That  kind  of  religion,  even 
that  kind  of  politics,  has  never  greatly 
appealed  to  me. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  Michael  Angelo 
was  a  great  man;  that  Rubens  and 
Claud  Lorain,  Murillo  and  Velasquez 
were  great  artists.  Bits  of  their  work 
are  charming.  Many  of  their  concep- 
tions are  appalling.  All  of  their  por- 
traits— particularly  those  of  Raphael 
and  Rembrandt — are  life-like.  Yet,  do 
I  prefer  the  modern,  and  would  not 
swap  a  Turner  or  a  Gerome  for  a  room- 

63 


full  of  Guides,  Titians  and  Tintorettos. 
The  Germans  especially  please  me.  To 
my  mind,  there  is  more  good  work  in 
Munich  than  in  Madrid.  I  know  a  mod- 
ern "Temptation  of  St.  Anthony/ '  hang- 
ing neglected  in  an  atelier  at  Florence, 
which  is  worth  all  the  nude  creations  of 
these  ancients.  It  is  realism  incarnate. 
Now  let  us  go  down  into  the  tomb 
of  Kings  and  muse  awhile  upon  the 
vanity  of  things  human,  albeit  claiming 
the  Right  Divine;  for  nowhere  else  on 
earth — not  even  in  Westminster  Abbey 
— is  the  lesson  taught  so  impressively 
as  in  the  Escorial.  The  Abbey  is  not 
without  its  human  features.  It  has,  as 
it  were,  a  soft  and  sunny  side  to  it.  Out 
of  Poet's  Corner  is  exhaled  a  certain 
fragrance  of  the  past  and  the  hand  of 
Chatham,  though  in  marble  effigy,  still 
points  inspiringly  to  the  greatness  and 
glory  of  England.  The  whir  and  din  of 
London's  streets,  like  the  roar  of  the 
ocean,  lull  the  dreams  of  those  who 
sleep  in  the  Abbey.  Not  a  sound  save 
the  scream  of  eagle  or  the  screech  of 
night-hawk,  penetrates  the  walls  of  the 
64 


Escorial  to  disturb  the  rest  of  the  Haps- 
burgs,  the  Bourbons  and  the  Montpen- 
siers,  silent  if  not  snug  lying  there  in 
their  iron  coffins,  with  gold  clasps  and 
jeweled  labels,  each  upon  another,  like 
so  many  steel-blooms,  awaiting  the 
Day  of  Judgment.  And,  what  a  Judg- 
ment! 

Upon  a  bleak  hillside,  thirty  miles 
away  from  Madrid,  stands  the  Escorial, 
a  huge  gray  pile  of  forgotten  grandeur, 
a  mausoleum  of  dead  hopes  and  fears, 
a  fortress  of  faded  glory,  a  shrine  of  ob- 
solete fanaticism,  to  which  good  Catho- 
lics might  come,  not  in  pious  homage, 
but  in  holy  dread,  seeking  lessons  of 
wisdom,  words  of  warning,  out  of  the 
appalling  shadow  and  loneliness  that  en- 
velop the  final  resting-place  of  ruthless 
despotism  and  abhorrent  cruelty  done 
upon  man  in  the  name  of  God. 

Neither  Charles  the  Fifth,  the  grim 
Emperor,  nor  his  son,  Philip  the 
Second,  the  iron  King,  took  any  ac- 
count of  the  generality  of  mankind. 
They  were  as  they  firmly  believed 
anoint  of  God.  They  were  undoubt- 

65 


ing  and  honest  bigots.  But  they  were 
able  men  and  born  to  the  purple,  and 
they  ruled  with  one  hand  lifting  the 
mitre,  the  other  hand  the  sword.  Who- 
ever got  in  the  way  of  either  must  die. 
Whoever  refused  the  service  of  either 
must  die.  Intolerance  was  their  atmos- 
phere, Horror  their  weapon.  They  ele- 
vated Cruelty  into  a  fine  art  and  called 
it  Religion.  Man  was  to  be  saved  not 
by  grace,  but  by  the  gibbet  and  the 
stake.  The  hob-nail  style  of  preaching 
was  supplemented  by  the  thumb-screw 
style  of  prayer,  and,  between  the  two, 
they  made  sad  havoc  in  Spain ;  in  point 
of  fact  they  made  the  Church  and  the 
State  to  serve  as  upper  and  nether  mill- 
stones for  the  deification  of  King-craft 
and  Priest-craft,  grinding  out  of  the 
souls  and  bodies  of  men  a  grist  for  the 
delectation  alike  of  princes  and  pre- 
lates, not  all  of  them  bad  or  insincere, 
by  far  the  most  of  them  thinking  they 
did  but  the  service  of  the  Lord,  notably 
the  father  and  son  who  lie  here  in 
this  Escorial,  built  by  the  one  to  the 
66 


glory  of  the  other,  now  given  over  to 
the  equal  celebration  of  both. 

The  arts  alike  of  pen  and  pencil  stand 
aghast  at  the  thought  of  undertaking 
the  job  of  describing  the  Escorial.  Stu- 
pendous! Guides,  along  with  guide- 
books, become  discreetly  reticent  in  the 
presence  of  the  most  awful  pile  of  rocks 
and  reminiscence  conceivable  to  the 
modern  mind.  St.  Peter's,  at  Rome,  is 
distinctly  one  sentiment.  The  Yosemite 
is  another.  The  Escorial  is  unequaled 
in  silent  oppression  and  grandeur;  an 
ever-living  monument  to  the  mistaken 
in  Theology  and  Government.  Alas,  for 
human  infirmity!  Why  could  not  Eras- 
mus have  thrown  his  gentle,  far-reach- 
ing spirit  around  Luther ;  why  could  not 
Luther  have  irradiated  Erasmus  with 
some  of  his  puissant  militancy?  Why 
two  centuries  of  blood  and  terror,  and 
a  succeeding  century  of  skepticism  and 
distraction,  as  the  offspring  of  a  Reform 
which — could  the  Religion  of  Christ 
have  prevailed — would  have  never  in- 
volved a  division  of  the  Christian 
church?  To  what  end  disputed  ortho- 

67 


doxy  if  it  be  to  end  in  Infidelism?  I 
came  away  from  the  Escorial  with  a 
heavy  heart,  nowise  edified,  or  elated,  or 
instructed. 

It  was  some  twenty  years  ago,  at  a 
banquet  in  Paris,  that  I  met  Emilio 
Castelar.  A  mutual  friend  carried 
us  away  after  the  post-prandial  cere- 
monies to  a  comfortable  Hole-in-the- 
Wall,  where  we  passed  the  greater  part 
of  the  remaining  night.  His  style  of 
speaking,  and,  indeed,  his  entire  person- 
ality, reminded  me  of  Mr.  Lamar,  of 
Mississippi,  who  had  just  entered  Mr. 
Cleveland's  Cabinet;  the  circumstance 
pleased  him;  and  we  soon  fell  into  the 
most  familiar  and  agreeable  conversa- 
tion. 

The  greatest  of  modern  Spaniards 
loved  Washington  and  Lincoln.  He 
was  a  Republican,  and  had  worked  out 
for  himself  the  problem  of  Eepublican 
Government.  The  opportunity  to  apply 
his  theories  to  Spain  came  to  him,  and 
he  failed  miserably.  There  were  not 
wanting  those  who  argued  thence  his 
unfitness  for  practical  rulership,  to 
68 


draw  learned  contrasts  between  the 
world's  men  of  action  and  its  orators, 
to  write,  in  short,  dissertations  upon 
real  statesmen  and  closet  statesmen, 
with  illustrations  from  Mirabeau  to  Bis- 
marck, from  Napoleon  to  Cavour,  and  to 
Castelar  himself.  After  all,  what  is  suc- 
cess in  government,  even  in  war,  except 
opportunity?  Suppose  either  Hoche,  or 
Marceau,  or  both  of  them,  had  lived  and 
returned  to  Paris  from  their  victorious 
campaigning  on  the  Rhine — suppose 
Bernadotte  had  not  been  the  brother-in- 
law  of  Joseph  Bonaparte,  which  tied  his 
hands  that  fateful  day  of  the  18th 
Brumaire — should  we  ever  have  heard 
of  Napoleon  except  as  a  brilliant  young 
general  of  Italy?  Bismarck  tells  us 
himself  that  on  a  certain  occasion  he 
planned  the  taking  of  his  own  life.  It 
is  the  coincidence  of  the  man  and  the 
occasion;  and  judged  by  this  rule  of 
time,  person  and  place,  the  Republic  of 
Emilio  Castelar  was  impossible;  nor 
could  any  statesman,  or  warrior,  have 
saved  the  day  except  by  the  sword. 
We  talk  of  Cromwell ;  why,  he  was  a 

69 


butcher  and  a  hypocrite.  He  a  Repub- 
lican? In  1648  England  was  quite  as 
ready  for  a  Republican  Government  as 
were  the  colonies  in  1776.  Cromwell 
had  a  better  chance  to  play  the  part 
afterward  played  by  Washington  than 
Washington  had  himself.  In  Cromwell 
the  opportunity  and  the  man  had  met, 
but — because  of  his  ambition  and  his 
dishonesty,  and  not  because  of  any 
lack  of  ability — he  failed,  founding 
neither  a  Dynasty  nor  a  Common- 
wealth. Even  Napoleon  did  better  than 
that.  So,  why  should  it  be  written  that 
Castelar  failed  in  Spain  because,  and 
solely  because,  he  was  a  scholar  and  not 
a  man  of  action.  When  Houston  had 
succeeded  in  establishing  the  Republic 
of  Texas,  Burr  exclaimed:  "I  was  thirty 
years  before  my  time."  Maybe  Burr 
was  right. 

I  very  distinctly  recall  the  conversa- 
tion with  Senor  Castelar.  Naturally, 
the  talk  took  a  retrospective  and  doc- 
trinal turn,  for  both  of  us  had  just 
spoken  upon  the  ethics  of  popular  Gov- 
ernment apropos  of  the  then  struggling 

70 


Republic  of  France.  Castelar  declared 
that  Spain,  more  than  France,  was  the 
victim  of  Beaurocracy.  In  France,  said 
he,  there  is  some  system,  some  intelli- 
gence; in  Spain  nothing  except  pre- 
rogative, corrupt  and  corrupting.  "The 
Spanish  people" — I  think  I  quote  very 
nearly  his  exact  language — "are  the 
most  Democratic  people  in  the  world, 
and,  the  most  conservative.  They 
cling  to  their  dignity  and  their  sloth. 
Each  would  have  his  own  way.  But,  as 
a  body,  they  do  not  love  liberty  for  the 
sake  of  liberty,  and  they  have  no  con- 
ception of  liberty  as  a  public  asset,  as 
a  political  quantity.  I  found  this  out 
too  late  to  save  myself  a  disaster.  I 
had  been  an  enthusiast,  perhaps  a 
dreamer;  but  as  soon  as  I  did  find  it 
out,  I  reversed  such  engineries  as  I  was 
still  able  to  control,  and  refused  to  in- 
volve my  country  in  my  own  ruin. ' '  In 
other  words,  he  had  made  no  provision 
to  retain  power  by  force.  He  remained 
true  to  his  ideals.  Rather  than  purchase 
success  by  the  sacrifice  of  those  ideals,  he 
stepped  down  and  out. 

77 


It  is  easy  enough  to  see  now  that  he 
was  right  unless  he  had  the  spirit  of 
Cromwell,  the  genius  of  Napoleon,  as- 
sisted by  fortune  in  the  creation  of  a 
new  order  of  things  resting  on  all  the 
odious  features  of  the  old  order.  The 
Democracy  of  which  Castelar  spoke  is 
plain  enough  to  be  seen.  The  average 
Spaniard  is  as  self-contained  and  sturdy 
as  the  wood-sawyer  of  the  aphorism  is 
supposed  to  be.  He  is  his  individual 
self,  independent,  isolated.  He  has  no 
conception  of  concert  of  action,  none  of 
liberty,  as  a  public  force.  He  is  not  a 
Socialist.  None  of  the  theories  of  the 
French  Revolution  reached  him.  He 
chooses  to  live  in  the  past,  and  the  past 
is  represented  to  his  mind  by  the  gran- 
dees and  glories  of  the  Medieval  Ages. 

In  contemplating  the  startling  con- 
trasts between  foreign  life  and  foreign 
history,  with  our  own,  I  can  not  help 
reflecting  upon  the  yet  more  startling 
contrasts  of  ancient  and  modern  Re- 
ligion and  Government.  I  have  been 
coming  over  here  at  irregular  intervals 
for  more  than  forty  years.  Always  a 
72 


devotee  to  American  institutions,  I  have 
been  strengthened  in  my  beliefs  and 
in  my  sentiments  by  what  I  have  en- 
countered in  Europe. 


73 


In  the  same  Series 

Edited  by  J.  F.  Newton 

Abraham  Lincoln — An  Essay 

By  Joseph  Fort  Newton 
A  Golden  Book  and  The  Literature  of  Childhood 

By  William  Marion  Reedy 

Henry  Thoreau  and  Other  Children  of  the  Open 
Air 

By  Theodore  Watts-Dunton 
Isaiah  as  a  Nature  Lover 

By  Frederick  John  Lazell 

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